


Someone To Keep Me Warm (When It's Cold Outside)

by PhenixFleur



Series: Soft Spot [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Bah Humbug, Bill being an asshole, Christmas Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hunter AU, Hunter Bill, Pine Trees, but severely regretting it, canon-age Dip, fawn!Deerper, holiday fluff, smol!Dip, there's quite a bit of angst this time around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 02:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8268521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhenixFleur/pseuds/PhenixFleur
Summary: Bill refuses to get into the spirit of the season and wants nothing to do with this holiday bullshit. Dipper is persistent on celebrating past the point of self-preservation. This doesn't go over well. 
Soft Spot-continuity, original posted on Tumblr last year on Christmas.





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> ...I swear this was posted last Christmas; I'm totally not posting a holiday fic over two months before the actual holiday. 
> 
> Also more of the character development for Bill from the main fic regarding his having no knowledge of his origins.

For as long as he could remember, admittedly not much given the wide gaps that rendered his memories beyond a certain point scattered beyond comprehension at best, Bill had absolutely despised winter.

From a hunting standpoint, the thick layer of snow that lay the woods to rest save for the endless stands of evergreens and harsh decrease in temperature could be both a blessing and curse in turns. The contrast between the darker pelts of both large and small game that allowed them to blend in with their surroundings so well in the warmer months and the snow they trod upon made tracking down fresh meat a great deal easier, as well as the tracks left by paws and hooves. On the other hand, a fair amount of the animals in question, ranging from suspicious whitetails to cautious foxes, either hibernated or were well aware of their disadvantage. This left them tense and constantly on their guard.

Not that hunting whitetail deer was even an option anymore.

Generally seasonal shifts and adverse weather conditions didn’t particularly bother him, simply being viewed as an inconvenience when they actually served as one, but winter…winter was different. Earlier in the year signs of life - the sound of birds conversing with each other, chattering of small animals, burbling of the stream and other aspects of nature going about their business - surrounded the lodge, making him feel far less alone and isolated from the rest of the world. Winter brought all of that to a halt; it was cold, bleak, and unnervingly silent. He’d spent the last winter in a state of partial paranoia and prone to fits of vexation a lot more often.

This winter was going to be very different.

Under ordinary circumstances, he’d wake up in a bad mood, unwillingly dragging himself out from beneath the warm layers of fur he slept under. This was followed by stumbling over to the bathroom to glare at himself in the mirror for a bleary, unfocused moment before splashing water on his face in a haphazard manner and beginning the process of getting ready to face whatever the day had to offer. This was usually limited to a small, stunted variety of things to shoot in the head and another dull day of existence that he hadn’t recognized as dull prior to the fuzzy, four-legged addition to his life that he’d found in the woods and absconded with sans an ounce of guilt. Finders, keepers.

This time he didn’t necessarily awaken in a  _good_  mood, but it was considerably less aggravated than it had been several months ago, and it was definitely less of a struggle to crawl out of bed. Upon looking in the bathroom mirror he noticed that he wasn’t particularly  _glaring_  at his reflection more so than glowering over the temporary exposure to the cold, and getting dressed wasn’t approached with as much reluctance as usual. It was easier to be more enthusiastic about what the day had to offer now that there was something more than a day of almost nothing waiting downstairs, be that merely breakfast or a pile of old books hauled down from the attic or whatever the kid was up to that morning.

As he descended the staircase, yawning, the sound of his housemate bustling about in the kitchen reached his ears, as well as the aroma of something sweet - probably pancakes. The kid was getting pretty good at cooking, or at least better than he was anyway (not that the bar was that high to begin with). As usual, he was humming some vibrant tune from a likely cheesy pop song to himself, and Bill paused on the bottom stair to watch him for a bit. The fawn’s tiny hooves clicked against the floorboards rhythmically as he danced around the table with mismatched dishes in his arms; his tail flickered back and forth happily, and when he turned in the hunter’s direction he wore an adorable expression of contentment. It was then that the hunter realized that he was  _smiling_  at the scene before him.

 _Shit_. It was happening again.

The fawn paused, finally noticing Bill staring at him. He squeaked in surprise, losing his balance and toppling over as if he’d forgotten how to use his legs. Again. This too was adorable, and it was extremely difficult to maintain a characteristic expression of annoyance tinged with apathy instead of smiling again. He shook his head as he stomped over to the table, taking in the sight of misshapen yet tempting looking pancakes on a platter at the center. “Kid, you are  _way_  too cheerful in the morning.”

Dipper picked himself up, brushing off his shirt and rubbing his arm in embarrassment. “Can you pretend you didn't see that?”

“Nope!” Bill settled into his chair, immediately reaching for a fork and spearing a pancake with it rather violently. “Also you do this  _every morning_. I’ve walked in on your little routine a million times now.”

The fawn flushed. “It’s not a routine!”

“Whatever you say.” Table manners were for other people. Bill flopped a couple of pancakes onto his plate and drenched them with syrup, taking a bite. Despite being nowhere near circular they were sweet, light, and fluffy, completely devoid of the burnt patches that had been present when Dipper first began his culinary efforts. Paired with the maple syrup they were absolutely delicious. “Not bad,” he grumbled through a mouthful, biting back the actual praise poised on his tongue.

The fawn seated on his haunches across from him looked up from his own plate, beaming. “Thanks.”

The hunter grunted in response, averting his gaze and making a point of staring at everything  _but_  the fawn. It was steadily getting harder and harder to ignore the sneaking suspicion that he’d royally fucked up and managed to get attached to the kid, especially since it was no longer a suspicion and more of a fact that he pointedly refused to acknowledge.

Whereas he’d normally launch into an excited discussion of whatever he’d found in the attic or the basement or in the woods around the house, Dipper fell silent, picking at his food and fidgeting. Bill knew exactly what was coming next, but he feigned ignorance, continuing to eat as if nothing of any importance was on the horizon.

“So…” Dipper began, keeping his eyes trained on the tabletop. “I found a pretty nice tree out there.”

“There are a lot of trees out there,” Bill replied, casually. “We’re in the woods.”

“I meant a pine tree. You know, like…” Dipper trailed off, unsure as to how to continue.

“Most of those trees are pine trees,  _Pine Tree_.”

Dipper gave up the pretense with a heavy sigh, slumping forward onto the table. “A Christmas tree?”

Bill rolled his eyes, dropping his fork on his empty plate with a sigh of his own. “Not this shit again, kid.”

The trouble had begun towards the end of the previous week, sometime around the 12th of December according to the calendar in the kitchen that he didn’t remember actually purchasing. The fawn was unusually restless, and it wasn’t until he paid closer attention to the date highlighted towards the end of the month that he figured out why. Holidays were pretty much a non-event for the hunter; there was no one to celebrate them with, and while he retained  _some_  knowledge regarding them they held no particular significance for him. They existed, and that was all.

Thus far they’d passed several holidays indicated by a variety of symbols on the calendar without verbal acknowledgement, though he knew that ordinarily the fawn would be celebrating them with his family and was most certainly aware of the date. On those days Dipper feigned indifference, but he was a terrible liar and thus it was obvious that the situation bothered him. Bill wasn’t entirely sure what to do about it, although seeing the fawn so unhappy always put a serious damper on his day resulting in him doing whatever he could to lift his spirits somewhat. There was an equally obvious solution, but that led to a hole he wasn’t willing to fall even further into.

However, unlike the other holidays earlier that year, Dipper seemed intent on not letting this one slip by. Somehow he’d located a box of dusty silver tinsel and a handful of ornaments in the attic and brought it downstairs to the main room, leaving it in plain sight. He dropped vague hints regarding trees or doing a bit of decorating here and there, which Bill steadily ignored.

Even now he beat around the bush instead of directly asking the hunter about actually doing something to observe the upcoming holiday. “Look, I know you’ve got this whole animal carcass aesthetic going on and I’m surprisingly okay with that, but I think this place could be…cheerier.” Dipper paused, attempting to gauge his reaction before soldiering on. “It doesn’t have to be much. We don’t have to _literally_ deck the halls. Plus it’s a waste to just leave all that stuff up there.”

“It’s just not my thing.”

“Why?” Dipper persisted.

“Because.”

“That is  _so_  not a real answer.”

“Because I don’t care!” Bill exploded. “I’ve never cared before and there’s no reason to start now. I’m a borderline to full-blown sociopath that lives out in the middle of the woods by himself. What’s the point?”

Dipper’s ears slicked back briefly, but by now he’d grown used to the hunter’s outbursts. “But I’m here now, so that negates at least a third of that, right?”

 _Damn it._  "Don’t let it go to your head.“

"Still…” Dipper continued, refusing to let the subject go. “I think you’d be…”

“Less of an asshole?” The hunter sneered. “Good luck with that.”

“That was  _not_  the term I was going to use, but maybe you’d be _happier_?” The fawn ventured as his ears pricked back up once more. “Even if you aren’t big on holidays, which you probably aren’t due to social isolation…”

Bill pressed his palm to his forehead, exasperated. “Look, kid. I’ll celebrate when there’s something worth celebrating, alright?”

The answer was clearly unsatisfactory, but Dipper was smart enough to know when he was beginning to work his nerves. His face fell. “I guess,” he muttered, regarding his unfinished breakfast as if it were responsible somehow.

“Then drop it.”

The fawn glanced up at him, then lifted his fork above his plate and let it go, allowing the utensil to clatter against the surface of the table.

“Smartass.”

* * *

Love really wasn’t something Bill was used to.

It was one thing to care about objects that were meant to be possessed with no will of their own, and if he was honest with himself he’d initially thought of the fawn in the same capacity - a possession, a plaything, something to torment for his own mildly sadistic amusement. He could very vividly recall chucking the kid in a cage in the basement at night, either ignoring the sound of him crying or yelling at him to shut up from atop the stairs. At one point the threat to drown him in the lake had held more weight than it did now, and there was a scar or two along his flank, visible dark spots beneath the layer of warm brown fur that he knew he was responsible for. Now the sight of them twisted his stomach into a knot with guilt every single time he caught sight of them. There had been a time when the fawn was little more than an object, instead of a living, breathing person whose wellbeing he cared about.

Then he’d made the mistake of taking pity on him during that late spring thunderstorm, and it had been downhill ever since.

Transitioning from thinking of Dipper as more than just a  _thing_  had taken awhile, and it was a confusing, frustrating time for both of them. The fawn was understandably  _terrified_  of him, to the point where he’d once progressed into a full-on panic attack just from the hunter being near him - which was equally nerve-wracking for Bill as he had no idea how to calm down a crying cervitaur and nearly ended up panicking himself.

In turn he was lost as to  _how_  to care for someone. How did one go about comforting someone that was upset? Shouting at the kid to get his shit together had not been an effective way of accomplishing that goal, and only made it worse. It required being gentle, but he didn’t know a damn thing about being gentle, resulting in a lot of trial and error. Caring for the fawn was a continual learning experience.

He gradually learned how to cook, or make an attempt at doing so, because Dipper couldn’t exactly survive on a diet that was mostly meat and clearly wasn’t eating enough.

He learned how to speak quietly with a minimal amount of expletives, and how to push aside the irritation in his tone while struggling to be soothing when something spooked the kid or he had a nightmare - both of which happened rather frequently at the beginning.

He learned to refrain from immediately yelling at the fawn whenever he made a mistake, broke something, or talked back, as well as letting the latter offense go on a fairly regular basis.

He learned to bandage wounds without causing additional pain, deal with colds, and how to tackle fevers.

He learned that whitetail deer really liked the assorted berries that grew in the woods around the house, and how to be patient with a hyperactive fawn babbling continuously about all the relics of a past he couldn’t remember scattered around the house.

He learned the kid’s habitual mannerisms - that his tail waggled when he was joyful over something, that he tended to stamp his right forehoof when he was angry, and that occasionally he actually squealed when excited. He learned about his desire to explore the world around him, and jumbled bits and pieces about the life he’d been plucked out of (not that Bill intended on acting on that knowledge; finders, keepers). He learned that the fawn was driven by boundless curiosity and intrigued by mystery, what he feared and what inspired him.

Overall, he learned what it was like to give a shit about another person - not an object, not a thing, but a person that hovered somewhere between pet and housemate, that now wore a simple braided leather necklace instead of a collar and was allowed out into the yard on his own.

Under those circumstances, who  _wouldn’t_  become develop some kind of attachment to the source of all of the changes in their life - which he now recognized had been pretty damn dull without Dipper in it?

The fawn was an unfortunate soft spot in the wall shielding his emotions and fueling the detachment that he held regarding other living things, and the knowledge of this and the vulnerability inherent within it scared the hell out of him. It was difficult to pretend that it wasn’t happening, and with every day that passed and every twinge of happiness that warmed whatever passed for his heart it grew harder to deny that he was happy and this stupid kid was the cause of it.

The day drifted on towards nightfall with a few more less than subtle hints on Dipper’s part and utter indifference on Bill’s. Initially his generally unfriendly persona had resulted in Dipper being apprehensive around him, but it was no longer effective no matter how hard he tried to chase him off or drive a wedge in their relationship. He was no longer capable of being outright cruel to the fawn, not that the few occasions where he’d lost his temper did much; usually those just lead to Dipper trying to cheer him up somehow provided he didn’t run off and leave the hunter so guilty over his actions that he went out of his way to apologize for them. In the end the most he could muster was a level of mild irritability that didn’t really deter Dipper from trying to talk to him, showing up with assorted objects he’d found lying and around asking about them, or inquiring about various phenomena the hunter had encountered in the woods so he could make a note of them in the journal he carried around - which he was now huddled up on the couch poring over.

This late in the year it was bitterly cold at night, so Bill had taken to stoking the fire to a near inferno to heat the main room enough for Dipper to sleep in, even with the pile of blankets he nestled in on the couch. It was actually warmer downstairs than in his room, and more than once he’d fallen asleep on the couch with the fawn curled up beside him snoring and thus been unable to bring himself to wake him up so he could head off to his own bed.

“Don’t you ever wonder?” The fawn lifted his head, staring up at him intently. Trying to maintain his distance had been a complete and utter failure; the best Bill could do was try to resist petting his ears as he usually did. “About who you used to be.”

The room was now filled with things Dipper had found upstairs in the attic or in the basement, ranging from an array of strange tomes and paperwork to trinkets that Bill didn’t recognize. Some of them were pretty mundane, but others were a bit more interesting, painting faint scraps of who he might have been - a weathered guitar, a few photos of people he couldn’t recall, a set of knitting needles and a half-finished scarf. “There’s so much stuff in this place. Aren’t you even slightly curious?”

Bill wasn’t quite sure how to respond to the question. He settled on a shrug and a noncommittal “Eh.”

“Not even a little?” Dipper prodded, closing his book and sitting up.

This wasn’t entirely true. The void beyond the past year or so was unpleasant to even think about, much less attempt to navigate. Thinking about what parts of himself might be missing was in turns both unnerving and irritating - it meant he was incomplete, and as far as he knew there wasn’t a way to recover them (at least one he could handle on his own).

“No point in dwelling on it now,” he replied dismissively. “If I haven’t remembered anything by now it’s probably not coming back. Anyway, this isn’t too bad. Whoever he was, he was probably a huge jerk anyway.”

“So basically nothing’s really changed,” the fawn quipped, grinning.

“Shut up and read your damn book, kid.”

Dipper flopped back against the cushion, hugging his journal and falling silent for a moment. “He might not have been that bad.”

“What makes you say that?” Bill cringed inwardly at the statement; so much for scaring him off. Damn kid probably didn’t even view him as a threat anymore.

“He’s still a part of you, and you’re not too bad, either. Deductive reasoning,” the fawn added, thoughtfully, before inching closer and resting his head against his leg.

The lighting in the main room was dim, reduced to a handful of lamps and firelight, but there was enough for the hunter to pick out one of the two scars along his flank, close enough for him to reach out and touch. He’d done that, so many months ago that it seemed like a dream. It was one of the first things he could recall feeling guilt over, that sickening sensation in his gut alongside the realization that this was  _wrong_  somehow.

And still the little cervitaur lay beside him, no longer tense as he had once been, relaxed enough to doze off with his tail flickering languidly _._

It hurt.

Physical pain was one thing; he was well acquainted with that for a variety of reasons. Emotional pain was something new. It hurt somewhere he couldn’t identify nor alleviate easily. It made him want to shove the fawn off and storm off upstairs to stew in his own frustration, toss him back in the basement or lock him into the attic, anything to escape the this fondness for another person that had him questioning his actions and feeling regret that wasn’t material-based.

Instead he reached for one of the blankets at hand and draped it over the slumbering fawn, hand drifting of its own accord to pet his ears gently enough to avoid waking him. 


	2. chapter two

Over the next few days, Dipper proved just how tenacious he could be when he had an idea lodged in his head. It would have been endearing if Bill wasn’t going out of his way to avoid too much interaction with him.

He blamed the weather. Prior to the blanket of snow that now covered almost every inch of the woods outside and the bitter chill in the air he and the fawn had spent a fair amount of time together, mostly at mealtimes, in the evening, and on rainy days, but they weren’t around each other  _constantly_. Bill occupied himself with keeping the house stocked with meat or firewood or making repairs, and Dipper poked around inside, explored the immediate woods surrounding it, made food that was actually edible, and tired himself out darting around in the yard when his whitetail side took over.

Winter precluded the bulk of that, relegating them both to being in the house, sharing each other’s space most of the time save for whenever Bill ventured outside for something. Even though he managed to repurpose some of the random clothing located in one of the unused rooms (coupled with fur) into a coat and other assorted pieces of cold weather attire for Dipper to keep him from freezing to death the fawn rarely left the house. He didn’t handle the climate well, and preferred to pass his time reading everything he got his hands on and asking a million questions that Bill didn’t always have an answer for.

Under those circumstances it was damn near impossible to keep to himself. He’d assumed that being snippy and unpleasant would dissuade Dipper from approaching him too often, but the kid was  _persistent_. He bombarded the hunter with inquiries about what he did and didn’t remember, went wild over how some of the information in the books he found and discoveries he’d made out in the woods during summer and fall coincided with entries in his journal, and, of course, continually hinted at the upcoming holiday with very little subtlety - apparently he’d decided that being direct was the way to go.

On one occasion he opened up a little more about his past life, mentioning some of the Christmas preparations he’d been involved in.

He made a point of painstakingly dusting off each of the ornaments and tinsel garlands in the box in the living room while Bill was sitting on the couch one night, gingerly placing them back in the box as if they were fragile.

Twice he actually worked up the nerve to accompany Bill outside while he gathered kindling, gritting his teeth every time the fawn pointed out another tree that ‘looked good enough’ without specifying what that meant.

In addition, he seemed to have come to the conclusion that the hunter needed 'cheering up’ for whatever reason, and while his sarcasm, wit, and penchant for being a wiseass never fully ceased he made small gestures towards that goal that Bill could tell had nothing to do with his holiday agenda. It was all very sweet, and that only led to the hunter growing more and more distant.

It occurred to him, a few nights down the line as he slowly inched away from the slumbering fawn on the couch next to him, that maybe  _he_  was the one being unreasonable. Was it really that bad if the kid wanted to drag a tree inside and dress it up? It took very little effort outside of commitment to the project, really, and it would be far easier to just give in. But he knew good and damn well that doing so would cement the very thing he was trying to avoid.

He could just picture himself taking an axe to one of the smaller pines with Dipper standing by, bouncing in place with excitement; plucking shimmering ornaments from the box in the main room and nestling them within its branches; leaning against the counter beside the fawn in the kitchen while he rolled out dough and contemplated what shapes to carve it into. The mental images warmed his heart so much that he stormed out of the house and sat on the porch sulking until he succeeded in burying them once more. Celebrating a holiday was something you did with  _loved_  ones; he knew that much. But the last thing he wanted to do was admit to loving the ball of fur and curiosity that slept on his couch.

After a few days of being pestered, he finally caved, letting out a deep sigh at the table during breakfast and resting his chin against his palm. “You’re not going to shut up unless I let you put that shit all over the walls, are you?”

Dipper’s eyes widened, shining with anticipation. He leaned forward expectantly.

“Whatever. Knock yourself out.” Maybe it would nip his holiday spirit in the bud a little, although Bill doubted it.

The fawn’s tail swished behind him, his ears pricked up happily, and he let out one of his characteristic squeals. He then proceeded to lose his balance and tumble off his chair onto the floor with an audible “Oof!”

As usual, it was  _adorable._  At this point Bill wondered if the kid was naturally this awkward instead of it being put on. He had a sneaking suspicion that that was the case.

Dipper picked himself up, rubbing his forearm in embarrassment. “Pretend you didn’t see that either.”

“Why is this so important to you, anyway?” Bill grumbled, drumming his fingers atop the table while staring at anything else  _but_  the fawn standing in front of him.

After a moment of quiet contemplation, Dipper responded in a tone that was more than a little wistful. “It’s just something we…I’ve always done. It’s a thing I can hold on to.”

He trailed off, and an uncomfortable silence rose between them until Bill couldn’t stand it any longer, waving a dismissive hand at him. “Just don’t leave shit lying everywhere, and keep me out of it.”

Before he could protest or make any attempt to move the fawn raced around the table and wrapped his small arms around him in a tight embrace that he couldn’t bring himself to shake off. “Thanks.”

As the fawn dashed off to search for more decorative material, Bill lowered his forehead onto the table, pressing it against the wood glumly. “Shit.”

Even without Bill’s help (which he steadfastly refused to offer), Dipper threw himself wholeheartedly into his project. His lack of height proved to be a problem, as did Bill denying him an actual tree to hang the ornaments from, so the fawn improvised to the best of his ability. He looped silver tinsel garlands along the stair railings, making it impossible to avoid brushing against them on the hunter’s way downstairs in the morning. In lieu of a tree, the kid went as far as to spend half a day digging up a bush from the yard and dragged it inside, leaving wet puddles all over floorboards as the snow lodged in its leaves melted, and placed a few ornaments on that.

The scene left Bill feeling like a complete asshole, seeing all the hard work the fawn was putting into prepping for a holiday that he refused to celebrate. This in turn left him feeling frustrated over feeling guilty over not helping Dipper with his task, and the next day or so was spent in a state of agitation that he couldn’t shake off. He managed to weasel out of chilling on the couch in the evenings, sequestering himself in his room under the guise of needing space from the fawn’s relentless holiday cheer, but the distance wasn’t as refreshing as he’d thought it would be.

Loneliness wasn’t something he was used to, either. Nor the knowledge that he was actually  _unhappy_. But he was, and it was all that furry little shit’s fault.

* * *

“Bill?”

The hunter didn’t bother turning around, continuing to stare at his gloved hands resting against the sheet of leather he’d been absentmindedly toying with. He wasn’t even sure why he’d seated himself at the desk to begin with. He was having a hard time concentrating on anything that day.

Tiny hooves clicked across the floorboards as Dipper approached him, hesitantly. “Bill? You busy?”

“What, kid?” Bill snapped, turning to face him in a huff. “What do you want?”

“Um.” The fawn held a plate of cookies that were probably fresh from the oven, cut into uneven triangles. He noticed the expression on the hunter’s face, grinning sheepishly. “Yeah, I tried pine trees and they didn’t exactly make it. I’m used to having actual cookie dough to work with.”

Despite their untraditional shape, the sugar cookies looked incredibly appetizing, especially since he hadn’t eaten that much at breakfast.

“These are the few that didn’t turn into charcoal,” Dipper continued, holding the plate out to him. “You want to do the honors?”

“I’m not hungry,” Bill lied, looking away. “You eat them.”

He hoped the dismissal would be enough to get the kid off his back so he could go back to sulking over his dilemma in peace, but  _of course_  it wasn’t, because Dipper was relentless. The fawn drew closer, and when he glanced back at him Bill could see an expression of concern on his face.

“Are you okay?” Dipper asked, sounding genuinely worried about him. “You’ve been weird all week. Weirder than usual,” he added, joking.

Bill opened his mouth to tell him to get lost, but thought better of it. He turned away, feigning interest in the half-hearted attempt at doing  _something_  with the piece of leather on the desk. “I’m fine. Stop asking.”

“But…”

In that moment the several weeks of unwanted emotional turmoil he’d been undergoing coalesced into a tight knot of resentment in his chest, and for the first time since he’d let Dipper out of the basement back in late spring Bill saw red.

He whirled around, quickly enough to cause Dipper to take a step backwards in surprise. “I said  _fuck off_ , kid,” he snarled, standing up and looming over the fawn menacingly. “I don’t care what you do with the house or the kitchen or the shit in the attic,  _just leave me alone_.”

He’d been irritated with Dipper before on several occasions given that he  _was_  a teenager after all, but this had rapidly gone beyond irritation and bloomed into full-blown rage. Bill wasn’t sure exactly who he was angry at, be it Dipper for being Dipper or himself for being so revoltingly  _human_ , but the fawn was there in front of him, providing an unfortunately easy target to vent his frustration on.

Dipper’s ears slicked back the way they did when he was actually nervous, his smile replaced with confusion. “I thought…I mean…I thought you…”

“What?” Bill took another step towards him, then another, backing the bewildered fawn up against a weathered bookshelf. “You thought what? That I actually  _cared_  about you or something? You’re just a distraction, kid. Something to keep me from being bored.”

Dipper clutched the plate as if it was the only thing he could find in the immediate vicinity to steady himself. His hands shook, and his entire small body trembled with terror - much as it had their first couple of weeks together. Unshed tears welled up in his eyes as he stared up at the hunter. “I…I…”

Bill laughed, then; it was a harsh, bitter laugh so far removed from any of his expressions of amusement over the past several months that it sounded out of place, even to him. “I should have just left you in the basement that night. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

The moment the words left his mouth he realized that he’d gone too far.

Whenever he’d snapped at Dipper in the past or let his temper get the better of him the fawn had always either railed back or fled; he’d never really cried. As far as Bill knew he hadn’t cried in a long time, especially over something he’d done.

Now the tears rolled down his cheeks, dampening his collar while Dipper breathed heavily as if on the verge of his first anxiety attack in awhile. The hunter could see himself clearly reflected in the fawn’s eyes, the twisted rictus of hatred on his face, the vivid golden gleam of his irises and the slight elongation of his pupils. He looked like a monster, and now he  _felt_  like one as well.

“Kid…” He began, hesitantly reaching out to place a hand on the fawn’s shoulder; Dipper flinched as if he’d been struck. Before Bill could do anything to stop him he dropped the plate, letting it shatter against the floorboards, then turned tail and ran as fast as his legs could carry him, letting out an audible sob as he departed.

He knew he should go after him, follow him and apologize for being such an asshole, tell him that the problem wasn’t him, that he’d done nothing wrong. But Bill remained rooted to the spot, stunned at what he’d just done. At one point he wouldn’t have cared, or found the situation amusing; now he nearly doubled over as his stomach clenched. It hurt. It hurt it hurt it  _hurt_  and he had no idea how to make it stop.

The silence left in Dipper’s wake was overwhelming. The shards of the broken plate and remains of the batch of cookies lay at his feet, and after a few minutes he stepped over them, making his way to the main room and sitting on the sofa aimlessly, wondering if there was a way to glue any of it back together.

* * *

It was cold.

He shivered, reaching for a blanket and coming up empty-handed. Bill’s eyes crept open, and it took a moment of blearily taking in his surroundings before it became apparent to him that he wasn’t in his room. The fire was out, and the temperature in the room had dropped to a level that even he was uncomfortable with; the kid was probably freezing his furry butt off.

_The kid_.

Memories of the confrontation from earlier returned with disturbing clarity; he could recall himself advancing on the poor fawn, saying things that he now regretted with a severity that weighted him down, the expression of terror in Dipper’s eyes as he ran, how he’d shuddered as if the hunter was going to hit him.

Bill groaned, leaning back against the cushions and running a hand through his hair. He wasn’t prone to admitting when he was wrong, but  _damn_  had he fucked up this time. Dipper would be perfectly justified in not trusting him anymore, and he had no idea how to go about regaining it. How odd that he’d finally managed to drive the fawn off and now all he could think about was mending what he’d broken.

He shivered again, casting an irate look at the dark fireplace. If he wasn’t in his nest in the living room Dipper had to be curled up somewhere else in the house nursing his wounds. As much as he wanted to immediately seek him out to apologize the room needed to be properly heated, so he went about starting a fire and tossing some dry logs upon the rising flames. Satisfied with the warmth beginning to emanate from the fireplace, Bill set off to find the fawn, unsure of how to proceed… provided Dipper didn’t outright run from him once he located his hiding place. Another sigh escaped his lips upon the realization that this was a definite possibility. There was fucking up, and then there was  _fucking_   _up_ , and this was most certainly the latter.

There were a lot of nooks and crannies in the house, some of which hadn’t been touched since the slate was wiped clean, and as he poked his head into unused rooms he could understand why Dipper was so intrigued by them. It was another mystery to pursue. One was a storage room, of sorts, and the other two were bedrooms; the decor of both of them indicated that they might have once belonged to children. Perhaps it was time to give Dipper his own room. It was an obvious bribe, but he wasn’t above doing so.

A cursory search of both the attic and the basement yielded nothing save for more artifacts, and it was then that the first twinge of anxiety - something he rarely felt if at all - settled upon him and refused to let go. The fading light streaming through the window in the kitchen indicated that the day was drawing to a close, and that it was probably snowing again. He  _doubted_  that Dipper had gone outside, even while distraught, but if he wasn’t in the house…

With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Bill burst through the front door, pausing on the porch and surveying the yard rather frantically. It  _was_  snowing again, gradually picking up speed as what little daylight remained petered out. “Kid? You out here?”

No response.

“Pine Tree? Dipper?”

Nothing…save for a faint line of hoof prints leading out into the woods, rapidly disappearing beneath the fresh snow.

“ _Shit_ ,” he swore under his breath, wasting no time in seizing a rifle he’d left lying on the porch earlier, taking the steps two at a time and running along the path of tracks left by the fawn. It was cold as shit and it occurred to him that he’d forgotten his coat or any other cold weather gear. It could wait.


	3. chapter three

Following the faint trail of hoof prints left in Dipper’s wake proved to be a far more harrowing task than Bill had expected. The fawn, like all whitetails, was light on his feet, leaving shallow prints instead of the deeper, more distinct ones he could expect from larger, bulkier animals that didn’t move with a spring in their step. The sun had yet to sink below the horizon, but the sky above his head was a gray, cloudy slate, making it much more difficult to discern where the path was leading him. A torch, lantern, or flashlight would have been a blessing in such a situation, but it was too late to go back to grab one now. The soft flakes melting against his exposed skin were not yet heavy, but he could tell they were gradually picking up speed; he had to find Dipper, and fast, before the snow progressed any further.

Knowing the woods for the next couple of miles surrounding the house like the butt of his rifle came in handy. There was a cleared path devoid of grass beneath the snow, simple ground meant for treading upon with little resistance, and he’d walked it so many times that his feet instinctively sought out the path and kept him moving in a fixed direction. Dipper was considerably less familiar with the scenery and had only managed to stay on the path for several yards outside the gate before veering off into the depths of the woods. Fortunately he seemed to have left in a panic, incidentally marking his passage with snapped twigs and the occasionally handful of pine needles shaken loose from some of the smaller conifers. To anyone else the details highlighting the trail might have been impossible to decipher, but Bill had more than enough experience tracking far more cautious animals than a scared cervitaur during winter. Careful not to disturb any of the twigs, needles, or hoof prints, he proceeded further into the woods with his boots crunching snow beneath his heels and breath leaving white puffs of condensation in the air.

If he’d ever felt as guilty in his life as he did then, it was probably part of the memories that eluded him.

It was _his_ fault that any of this was happening, the result of emotional constipation and denial; as much as he’d wanted to avoid admitting to caring about the kid while he was there he sure as hell couldn’t deny it now that he was gone. Every step he took with the icy air biting into his skin and making his lungs ache served as evidence of that. If he was cold, Dipper had to be absolutely freezing, wherever he was. He was definitely not headed in the direction of the town several miles away, which made it worse; as far as Bill knew there was nothing out there but more trees, more snow, and potential hyperthermia if he remained unsheltered from the elements for too long. The thought made him pick up the pace, now jogging with the rifle on his back shifting from side to side. The snowflakes were growing larger, more substantial, and falling at an increased rate from earlier - slowly wiping the trail clean beneath the fresh coat of snow beginning to coat the ground.

At one point he paused, struggling to quell the urge to panic rising in his chest, and cupped his hands around his mouth in an attempt to amplify his voice. “Dipper!” He rarely actually used the kid’s name, and saying it in this situation only drove the fawn’s absence and the severity of it home further. What if he didn’t find him? What if…what if…

“ _Shit_ ,” he swore aloud, finally breaking into a run before the trail was covered completely. Every couple of minutes he would stop to yell the fawn’s name, hoping that this time he’d respond.

The sight of something bright blue a few steps ahead of him caught his eye as the trail petered out entirely beneath the now steadily falling snow. His stomach clenched as he identified the object, kneeling to retrieve it with trembling hands - a blue and white cap with a pine tree printed on it. It was covered in small ice crystals, as if had been lying there for awhile. And several feet away, beneath the boughs of a small pine tree, lay an unmoving lump of brown fur and pale skin.

Time ground to a halt.

Bill wasn’t sure if he was calling the fawn’s name or not as he raced towards his limp form, heartbeat audible within his ears and a lump in his throat; the moment he reached his side he dropped to his knees, experiencing absolute terror for the first time in a very, very long time.

_So_ _this_ _is_ _what_ _it feels like._

His hand shook uncontrollably as he slipped off a glove and tucked it into his back pocket, placing his hand against the fawn’s forehead. His skin felt like ice beneath his fingertips; he was breathing, but his chest rose and fell much too languidly to be normal. Miniscule ice crystals dusted his hair, his fur, and his eyelashes, and shaking him produced no results. Pressing his fingers against the fawn’s wrist revealed that his pulse was slow, staggering almost.

Bill stumbled backwards, landing on his bottom with his heart beating out of control. Melted snow soaked through the seat of his trousers, but he barely felt it. “No. No no no, _fuck._ ”

Reaching for the unconscious fawn again, he shook him harder. “Wake up, Dipper. Kid. Wake up.”

Dipper didn’t respond.

How long had he been out there? How long had he…had he run after the hunter exploded on him? That would have been a couple of hours at the very least. Bill knew what it was and the term for it, but he wasn’t exactly experienced in treating hypothermia, especially this severe. One thing was certain, though - he had to get him out of this weather or Dipper didn’t stand a chance.

He hastily stuffed the cap into the knapsack on the fawn’s back, gently lifting him into his arms. He was much lighter than Bill expected, even after months of gaining a little more weight. Light, and fragile, and quite possibly fading.

Bill stood up and ran, letting his feet find the way while his mind spiraled out of control, stuck on a single phrase like a scratched record.

_Don’t leave me._

* * *

The now driving snow almost blinded him, coupled with the wind setting up an eerie howl, proving to be a hindrance in finding his way back to the house with Dipper in tow. Despite being worried for the fawn’s condition it was nothing short of a miracle that he’d managed to find him before the snowstorm picked up. Experience was yet another a blessing, carrying Bill towards his goal even as the flakes obscuring his vision forced him to blink rapidly. At some point he shrugged off the rifle to lighten his load, lamenting his oversight in bringing anything with him to shield Dipper from the storm.

By the time the outline of the fence and the house beyond it came into view, Bill was out of breath and his lungs were on fire. He was shivering violently, and his legs could barely sustain both his weight and Dipper’s. Still he continued to run, through the gate, up the stairs, and into the house, slamming the door behind him and shutting the hostile weather out where it belonged.

Ready to collapse, he stumbled over to the couch, gingerly setting Dipper on it before throwing himself against the cushions, panting and struggling to catch his breath, shaking from exertion. He could recall fighting an overly assertive mountain lion a few months prior, and that was _still_ a more enjoyable experience than this. “Fuck winter,” he muttered, directing a hateful glance at the front door.

He then turned his attention to the unresponsive fawn lying beside him, completely at a loss as how to proceed. He was so very cold, as if he were already de-

He refused to even _think_ about that. He was still breathing, his heart was still breathing, he was still _alive._

Common sense told him that his top priority was warming the kid up as quickly as possible; he was glad he’d had the foresight to get the fire going before heading out to search for him. His knapsack wasn’t completely soaked through, but both his vest and the shirt he wore under it were; awkwardness could take a seat in the corner and wait until he managed to revive him. Shrugging the vest off and pulling the shirt over his head, he went about removing one of the sofa cushions and positioning it on the floor in front of the fireplace. He considered the blankets for a brief moment, then made a decision; instead of draping them over Dipper he wrapped one of the blankets around him, dumped the rest of the pile on the floor next to the cushion, then seated himself with the fawn in his lap. One by one, he went about forming a makeshift cocoon around them, scooting closer to the fireplace and hugging the fawn with a desperation he hadn’t believed himself capable of. “Come on, kid. Don’t die on me.”

The contrast between the Dipper he’d grown used to, vibrant and full of life and the nearly lifeless, motionless shell he was now was unbearable. As the minutes ticked by and he waited for both the heat emanating from the fire and his own body heat to do their job he found himself gently rocking the bundle in his arms, chin buried in his hair, speaking softly although he didn’t have to worry about waking him. “Stay with me, Pine Tree. Wake up.”

Nothing. No sarcastic remark or yelp of surprise or glare or fluffy tail waving with excitement.

“Wake up, kid. Please?” It wasn’t a word he used often, if ever, but he now did so without feeling self-conscious, aware of little aside from the body that was oh so cold. “Come on. I’m sorry.”

The admission came as a surprise, but only momentarily - it was simply the vocalization of what he’d been feeling ever since yelling at Dipper earlier that day. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t die on me. I don’t know if I know how to be happy without you.” The words came without hesitation, honesty laced with everything that came with it in such a situation. He regretted yelling at Dipper. He regretted not immediately attempting to fix the mistake after making it. He was scared that the fawn wouldn’t wake up, that his light would sputter out, removing the warm presence he brought to the hunter’s life. He was afraid, actually afraid, of losing him. Instead of hunching his shoulders against the humanity taking hold of him he now fully embraced it, holding the source of happiness in his life close and willing him to open his eyes.

Slowly, _ever_ so slowly, the pallor retreated as the fawn’s skin returned to a pale but yet much healthier color, the hint of red at the tip of his nose blooming once more. The chill retreated from his body, which remained cold but no longer deathly so. Noticing the gradual change in his condition Bill tightened the cocoon of blankets around them, falling silent and staring into the fire absently with one hand petting Dipper’s ears.

Half an hour later, the fawn shifted, slightly, but enough for the hunter to notice immediately. Bill stiffened, looking away from the fire and down at the fawn in his arms. “Dipper?”

His eyelids trembled for a few seconds, followed by his eyes creeping open, although only halfway. Brown eyes met Bill’s, bleary and uncomprehending, as if he didn’t recognize the hunter. His lips moved, but no sound emitted from them.

A single tear coursed its way down the hunter’s face, clinging to his chin for a second before breaking free and landing on the fawn’s cheek, followed by another, and yet another.

His gaze regained a measure of clarity, finally focusing on Bill. There was no judgment in them, no hatred or resentment. His voice was faint, barely audible. “Are you crying?”

“Yes,” Bill whispered, overcome. “What of it, you little shit?”

Dipper’s lips curled into a small smile, and he nuzzled against the hunter’s chest with a sigh, eyes slipping shut once more. Bill mirrored the gesture, holding the fawn close as the exhaustion settled upon him, drifting off to sleep as well.

* * *

Bill didn’t wake up in a good mood.

He opened his eyes and glared at the rays of sunshine streaming through the window onto the wall across from it for having the audacity to be there. After a few minutes of mentally psyching himself up for the task of reluctantly dragging himself out of bed, he stumbled towards the bathroom, glowering at his expression in the mirror for a minute or two while contemplating how much he disliked the chill in the air, even inside the house.

At this point he’d accepted that he simply wasn’t a morning person. Morning people were insane, and _that_ was coming from a self-admitted sociopath. He hated mornings.

But now he hated them a little less, knowing that they were only the short prelude to the rest of the day.

After getting dressed, he exited his bedroom, glancing down the hallway at the room in which he and Dipper had spent several hours the evening before clearing out, with him doing the actual cleaning and the fawn examining every corner of the space, enthralled by his findings and commenting on _everything_ to the point where the hunter threatened to drown him in the lake once it thawed. It still needed a bit of work before Dipper could move into it for good, but he’d spent the night there and slept in the bed, curled up beneath the pile of blankets from the sofa.

The usual enticing aroma of breakfast met him as he descended the stairs, subconsciously running his fingertips through the silver tinsel looped around the banisters. He paused on the last stair before the bottom, sitting down to survey the main room and what he could see of the kitchen. Rows of multicolored string lights lined the walls, of which some of the bulbs no longer worked. The box of ornaments and garlands was tipped over, spilling out onto the floor as a casualty of the process of chucking the bush back out in the yard and hauling in the small tree he’d taken an axe to with Dipper standing in the snow a couple of feet away, trembling with excitement, all the while calling out instructions that Bill ignored for the most part. Chopping down the tree without damaging it had taken longer and required more effort than he’d anticipated, after which he declared that he hated trees and might burn the woods down in retaliation while he and Dipper dragged it across the yard and into the house, where it waited to be decorated once the hunter could stand looking at it again.

From within the kitchen he could hear the fawn’s hooves tapping against the floorboards, humming some likely cheesy pop song to himself while he worked. The sweet smell indicated that it was probably pancakes again, which was fine; Bill liked the kid’s pancakes, even though they continued to be horribly misshapen.

He stood up, making his way into the kitchen and startling Dipper, who lost his balance and toppled over as if he’d forgotten how to use his legs. The fawn looked up at him, flushing. “Can you pretend…”

“Nope!” Bill interrupted him, seating himself at the table and drumming his fingers against the surface impatiently while waiting for Dipper to pick himself up and join him. A tray of triangular sugar cookies baked after dinner the night before laid on the counter, where they’d been left to cool so the icing didn’t melt once he and Dipper decorated them. They weren’t perfect, as baking was a skill that persisted in eluding Bill and working without premade batter was troubling for Dipper. A preliminary taste test had confirmed that they were pretty good in spite of their flaws, and awkwardly rolling out dough beside the fawn was fun enough to make it all worth it.

All throughout breakfast Dipper chattered about some book or the other he’d found in his room, as well as some assorted theories about its origins, leaning forward on the table with his ears pricked up and his tail flagging enthusiastically. It was adorable, and Bill smiled at the thought. They came more easily now that he’d ceased trying to swallow them.

Breakfast was followed by a flurry of decorative activity, from icing the cookies and subsequently making a mess out of the counter, to figuring out how to keep the tree from falling with no base to hold it - a probably solved through building a sort of barrier using several stacks of heavy books Dipper had found in the attic. The fawn’s small stature resulted in taking care of the upper boughs of the tree to Bill, winding silver garlands through its branches with inexperienced hands. It was lopsided, but Dipper made no complaints whatsoever, working at his own section of the tree with an intensity that caused his brow to furrow.

“Not bad,” the fawn commented, passing another ornament to Bill to be placed towards the top of the tree. “You wanna take one of the strings of lights down and put it over here?”

The hunter shrugged, sliding the blue and yellow globe onto a branch. “You’re the expert, kid.”

Dipper grinned at this, drunk with power already, and Bill flicked his cap off, ruffling his hair. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

In the end the fawn decided to leave the lights as they were, heading back to the attic to search for any boxes he might have missed, giving Bill the chance to go check on what he’d been working on for the past few days after Dipper went to sleep. The leather-bound book was coming along nicely, and would most certainly be ready by the 25th. In the absence of golden paint he’d resorted to etching the pine tree symbol into the cover; it wasn’t as fancy as the journal he already possessed but he hoped Dipper would like it, anyway.

“Bill?”

He rapidly shoved the book back under the pile of leather scraps as Dipper poked his head around the corner. “Can you help me with something?”

Scouring the attic had indeed turned up another string of lights, and Bill wrapped them around the top of the tree, leaving Dipper to do the rest as he retired to the couch for a moment.

Dry logs crackled in the fireplace, blackening as the flames licked at them; the aroma of another batch of cookies cooling on the counter floated into the room from the kitchen; the walls gleamed with sparkling tinsel and bright lights, and Dipper stood beside the tree, methodically poking string lights into its branches, then deciding he didn’t like their placement and doing it all over again.

Bill didn’t like winter - a couple of months of the world outside being cold, bleak, and lonely.

But inside the house it was delightfully warm and lively, much more deserving of the term ‘home’ than ever before.

And Bill was happy.


End file.
